"Artelan," he said, in Spanish, "if you will permit me to go, I will give you five thousand dollars."
"If you are worth five thousand dollars to me," the imperturbable Pablo replied, calmly, "how much more are you worth to Don Miguel Farrel?"
"Ten thousand! You will be wealthy."
"What need have I for wealth, Loustalot? Does not Don Miguel provide all things necessary for a happy existence?"
"I will give you twelve thousand. Do not be a fool, Artelan. Come; be sensible and listen to reason."
"Silence, animal! Is not the blood of my brother on your head? One word———"
"Fifteen thousand, Artelan. Quick. There is little time to———"
Pablo rode up beside him and quite deliberately smote the man heavily across the mouth with the back of his hand.
"There will be no more talk of money," he commanded, tersely.
John Parker had finished writing his letters and was standing, with his wife and the potato baron, in front of the hacienda when Pablo and his prisoner rode into the yard. Thin rivulets of blood were trickling from the Basque's nose and lips; his face was ashen with rage and apprehension.